


The Sound of Rain

by Muninsthought



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Rain, Soft Jeremiah Valeska
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muninsthought/pseuds/Muninsthought
Summary: Jeremiah wakes while sleeping at the manor, after hearing the rain, which he has not heard in a very long time, due to living in the bunker. He reflects on the other times he has heard the rain.





	The Sound of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy, I've never posted any of my writing so this is a first. I came up with the beginning/premise of the idea one night when I couldn't fall asleep and it was raining outside, and I was thinking about a cute fic idea and realized that under a bunker you probably wouldn't be able to hear the rain. Also do I know how to write dialogue? Nope.

Jeremiah sat quietly upon the edge of the bed. Outside, the rain that was ever so common in Gotham fell, pouring down from the expanse of the charcoal clouds above. He listened to it, as it insistently pitter-pattered upon the window and the window ledge, each droplet echoing a slightly different tone. He could only barely see the rain as it fell against the window; everything was a deep shade of black under the shadow of night, and it was only with the barest glimmer of light that illuminated the water droplets in ghostly silver outlines. As he listened, he watched them attentively as the droplets conglomerated and made their way down the window pane in ever-changing rivulets.  
  
They shed in the little light there was a shifting shadowy pattern that fell from the window across the floor and onto the bed. It threw a stark shadow of him upon the duvet, and all around the silver light stretched itself out, unobstructed. In doing so, it gently illuminated the face of the other young man who was curled up within the warmth of the blankets, a mess of his wavy black hair stark against the light upon white pillows.  
  
Jeremiah watched as the greys slipped and slid over Bruce's face, as the strange mirage of light lit one thing then another; the other boy breathed evenly, a soft look upon his face, the rain unencumbering him in his sleep.  
  
He sighed into the night. It was all still so strange, so new for him. The life he had left behind, led forward by he who slept beside him. One of those strange new things to him, was once again hearing the sound of the rain.  
  
He had not heard it in all of the years he had spent hidden away deep within his bunker. He had of course, indeed heard it, when he had stayed in the school, and back when he was young. Back when he used to travel in the circus. Back before all of it.  
  
He had never particularly cared for rain and its melody; it had only made them miserable and damp as they were forced to help with chores around the circus. There was only one night, that he remembered that he had enjoyed the rain, and it was back when he was very young, the memory seeming to have a worn hazy feeling of a memory that was not quite fully there. But he had remembered that they had returned home soaked from the rain, and their mother had made them hot chocolate. It was probably just the barest amount of hot chocolate powder in water, but they had both been enamoured; and even better, at that time they had had mini marshmallows and they each put some that they had been given into the hot chocolate, the marshmallows melting into a white sugary foam on top. He remembered that Jerome had stolen a few of his marshmallows, and he cried out to his mother. But she in response smiled and laughed, for he had a moustache made of the foam, and when she gave a light admonishing, Jerome had smiled up at her a twinned moustache adorning his own lip.  
  
But time continued, as it was wont to do; and in the rain came no more comforts against the harsh weather. Their mother now always smelled of liquor, and would entertain constant company. They both lived in fear of abuse, waiting for the next tipping point, for it always came, sooner or later; and then there would be the hysterically screamed sentences, and the feeling of nails digging into soft skin, or the sound of leather upon bare flesh, and the flashing sting of a slap across the face.  
  
He shivered, remembering.  
  
Food became scarce, as the money was pooled into buying more booze; and as a result they more often had bruises adorning their skin then there was food upon the table. And they grew lanky and lean, both becoming accustomed to the gnawing hollow feeling of hunger in their stomach, and to pacify that hunger, when it got to sharp, they turned to ill deeds.  
  
It was then, that Jeremiah found that when Jerome smiled, there was a new sharpness and cruelty; and he began to become afraid of his own brother. And yet, in his own fear and hunger, he found in himself a similar sharpness, a similar cruelty.  
  
He frowned, his mouth flattening, displeased at that thought. He flicked his gaze towards the window again; away from Bruce. He was not proud of his past. It was true that his cruelty and sharpness was made of a different form then his twins, but it cut just as well.  
  
The rain on those long ago nights were of a harsh and metallic sound, as it pounded against the tin roof of the camper. He would often be unable to get away when it rained, and would curl up as small as he could in the farthest corner, left to a night of broken sleep and a feeling of deep disgust, desperately wishing the jarring sounds of the rain upon the roof would drown out the sound of his mother and her company. On those nights, the fervent disgust mixed with another emotion, this one a paralysing fear, a desperate hope to be unnoticed and unheard and unthought of by them, if they cared to ever change their games.  
  
And when he could not stand it anymore, he would slip away; praying his movement would be unnoticed. In the morning they would always know, but getting away provided a much needed relief, a variation. And so he would attempt to find a warm spot out of the rain as it came down; the spot he would most often hide away within was in one of the storage carriages; picking the lock, he would slip in, curling up between the carnaval items, shivering from the damp and cold, attempting an uninterrupted sleep. Even in that comparative safety, the rain only ever sounded harsh and jagged to him, crashing against those tin roofs.  
  
When he heard the rain at the school, this time it was different. It was less jarring, as it hit the roofing tiles and the windows, bringing in an almost melodic sound into the dorm. But even in those softened sounds of the rain, it had never brought him comfort. On those nights, as a blue tinged light would filter into the room along with the sound of the rain, he would often find himself sleepless, the dorm room cold and drafty, a deep loneliness in the absence of the constant fear; and laying under that, a pervading feeling of guilt for what he had done, and a creeping terror of its repercussions.  
  
He wondered, in his loneliness and in forsaking his fear momentarily, what could have been done differently. If, perhaps, both of them could've have made it out. If he hadn't lied, and lied, and lied.  
  
As time continued on, the loneliness that dwelt within him remained; he never got close with any of his classmates. He was polite, and proper, but that was all he ever was. He had told himself it was out of protection for anyone he got close with, that it was easier to be alone than to have connections, but those were always lies, half-truths easier to swallow. This showed, for even in his staunch refusal of relationships, he came to envy his classmates on those long nights, in their show of their easily made friendships, their laughter and their camaraderie. He had never seemed to be able to express what they had; he had never really tried either. Even when he had met Ecco, when he worked with her all those years, there was still a distance, and the loneliness remained. It made him wonder, sometimes in those cold blue nights, if some part of him had died, had broken irreparably; if the what Jerome had whispered in his ear were right.  
  
And so the loneliness simply became a part of him, mainly unremarked upon by his conscious, except for the occasional pangs of jealousy. As a result, his studies became his only companion; his curiosity and hunger for knowledge insatiable, fulfilling him and gifting him a reason to live. It also functioned more acutely, he was aware, on those blue nights as a distraction from the questions and feelings within. They were complex, beautiful ideas and concepts and problems; and therefore all the better complex, beautiful distractions.  
And then he had graduated, and his distraction became his job, and those nights and classmates were no more, for he had created his bunker, a safe haven, so far away from the world. And so without realization in his isolation, he had forgotten the sound of rain.  
  
And now he was here, within the Wayne mansion, with Bruce asleep in the bed beside him. And the sound of the rain crept in through the window as it began to fall outside, and he remembered it as he awoke to hear it's softly sung melody.  
  
At first it had alarmed him, a reminder of his insecurities; but he was here with a young man beside him that loved him, and he wasn't who he once was, and he was safe, even away from his bunker, within the world. And so, as he listened, he became aware that this time this tone was, again, a different one then the memories he had from before; and as he listened, the sound of the rain become soothing. Entranced by it all, he became aware of every minute movement of the rain as it gathered upon the glass; he watched as it trickled down the window pane, raindrop by raindrop gathering, mixing together till their mass's gravity was too much, and they flowed downwards. It was strangely similar, in a healing rather than a destructive way, to watching the movement of fire, and listening to its crackle, the movement, colour scheme and sound of minute differences repeated in endless conformative uniquity.  
  
It lulled him, his thoughts and emotions into a peace and quiet that was relatively unknown to him, and in this, sleepiness overtook him. Slipping his glasses off his face and folding them, he placed them down upon the bedside table once more, before settling again into the warmth of the bed. Bruce shifted in his sleep as he resettled, his movement waking the other; and he groggily opened his eyes, attempting to focus blearily upon the other mans face.  
  
"Miah..." He spoke softly, smiling in a warm sleepy way. He reached his hand out to gently brush his cheek. "You ok?"  
  
"Yes." He whispered back. "Just admiring the rain."  
  
"Yes" Bruce closed his eyes, listening before murmuring, "It is beautiful isn't it?"  
  
Following his statement, his breathing evened again as sleep gently folded itself around him.  
  
"Yes." The other boy replied softly, to the sleeping one before him. "Yes, it is."  
  
He smiled, and entwined his hand in the one that had ever so gently touched his cheek. Their hands ever so warm together; and in closing his eyes, he drifted off to sleep, contentedly listening to the rain.


End file.
